Can I Get A Wahoo
by DarkmoonSigel
Summary: Basically, Aziraphale doesn’t give a fuck about the M25, and didn’t lift a finger to stop it because he never leaves his shop, and he doesn’t drive. Meanwhile, Crowley works to further inconvenience himself in hindsight.


"You're doing what now?"

Crowley had been going on for a while now about some idea of his called the M25. Aziraphale had been following up to a point, but wine was not a good listener, or sorter of information.

"Isn't that some type of spy?" Aziraphale fumbled out. He didn't want Crowley to be a spy again, working for British CounterIntelligence, no matter how cool he thought it made him look. Being double crossed by Nazi agents had given the angel a severe case of sour grapes about the whole spy thing though.

"Spy? What are you going on about?" Crowley glared over at the obviously inebriated being, though he couldn't cast stones. He was well into his cups too.

"M25. That's a spy, right? Does spy things." Aziraphale said, trying to think of a better example of 'spy things'. "You took me to a movie about it. There were those cars you like, and scantily clad women with inappropriate names, and those ridiculous telephone shoes."

"007! Bloody hell, you're thinking of 007, you dippy angel!" Crowley finally managed to make the rainbow connection for them. Aziraphale hadn't liked the movie, the angel bothered deeply by the whole thing.

After hours of questions combined with equal parts of bitching, Crowley still didn't know if he was ever going to take Aziraphale to another 007 movie again. On one hand, Aziraphale's questions ran almost into the absurd, fairly so in his own opinion...

"Wouldn't the telephone in his shoe get damaged when he runs or does the kicking thing, and how is he getting service anyway? Well, it's not plugged into anything so I'm sorry if that suspends my belief that he can just ring up London from Africa or wherever they sent him to. Furthermore, what happens if he steps in any excrement? Does the shoe still work? Does he still use it? It is a very valid question, my dear. You've lived in cities as long as I have."

...while on the other hand, it gave them a reason to spend hours in each other's company, if not an entire day if they played their cards right, and there was a lot of alcohol involved.

"Jolly good, that's the one!" Aziraphale said with an emphatic gesture of drunken rightness, like he had gotten there all in his own. "He will never find love like that."

"Oh my sweet Jesus, that's not the point of those movies." Crowley sighed, knowing he and he alone had to stop this conversation train before it ran completely off the rails.

"And those women deserve so much better! He doesn't love them, not really. They need to start by changing their names t-to something more empowering." Aziraphale riled up, his sloshed brains cells congratulating themselves for coming up with a comprehensive statement.

"Are you done? Because you're being ridiculous." Crowley said, trying for a matter-a-fact tone as he swayed in place.

"But I'm right!" Aziraphale grinned up at the demon.

"Yes, you are, but that's not what we're talking about!" Crowley jumped up on a chair to point down at the angel to get his attention.

"Get your shoes off my furniture, you heathen." Aziraphale said, flapping his hands ineffectually at the demon.

"Then pay attention. M25, right? With me?" Crowley wiggled his now bare toes that were covered in scales at the angel. "Not real shoes anyway. Back to the M25. You follow?"

"Not a spy." Aziraphale said with a scrunch of face until Crowley properly got down off his chair.

"Not by a long shot. M25 is a road."

"A road?"

"Well, more than just a road. The M25 or the London Orbital Motorway will encircle almost all of Greater London."

The angel stared at the demon with in an unfathomable expression, Crowley hoping that some of this landing.

"What about it?" Aziraphale asked finally, Crowley sighing with relief. He really didn't have it in him to explain the differences between 007 and the M25 again. Well, he did if Aziraphale broke out stronger stuff, but not with wine alone. He was a demon, not a saint.

"I am going to change it, have already changed it." Crowley said, feeling very clever at the moment.

"Why?" Aziraphale finally asked, the moment the demon had been waiting for.

"I'm so glad you asked!" Crowley snapping his entire presentation into being right there in the bookshop's backroom.

"Oh my..." Aziraphale blinking at all the equipment, and the glossy power point presentation he was being handed. He politely looked down at it, much too drunk to bother reading the tiny print, but it did have graphs on it. Not that those helped, but they were impressively in color.

"So, thanks to three computer hacks, selected bribery, and me moving some markers across a field one night..." Crowley began. He was due in Hell to give this presentation soon, and he wanted it to go off without a hitch. Asking Aziraphale flat out for help was out of the question, at least in Crowley's mind, so he took the scenic route of excessive amounts of alcohol and captive audiences instead.

"Is that what you were doing that night? I was wondering why you were wearing that funny coat." Aziraphale squinted at the demon.

They had gone out of their way one night, without much explanation on the demon's part about why, to some obscure tavern that served the loveliest rabbit stew that the angel had had in several centuries. Crowley had made a stop on the way back. Aziraphale had been filled to the brim with stew, scotch, homemade bread, scotch, pudding, and even more scotch to the point of humming all the songs he knew so the angel hadn't really noticed, or cared much about the delay.

"The M25 which was supposed to look like this," Crowley pressed on as he switched out a slide on the projector, trying not to get distracted.

That had been a very good night, the angel singing to himself all the way home, and deep into the night. Aziraphale had come back to his place, a rare thing, Crowley spending most of it with his head in the angel's lap, listening to a very odd mixture celestial harmonies and other songs through enormous ages while Aziraphale absently stroked his hair and wings.

"Will, when it opens in 1986, actually look like this!" Crowley said, presenting the new slide with a grandiose gesture.

"I say, isn't that a sigil from the dark Priesthood of Ancient Mu?" Aziraphale asked, redirecting his squint. Crowley wasn't surprised that the angel recognized it. Aziraphale collected information like a magpie collected shiny bits of things. If he poked around, Crowley was fairly certain that he could find a scroll from the Priesthood hidden on the shelves somewhere.

It was going to be a dark day if an anthropologist ever stumbled into the bookshop, and God help that anthropologist if they were ever stupid enough to try and unearth anything from here. 'It belongs in a museum' wasn't going to cut it with Aziraphale.

"It's the dark sigil Odegra." Crowley grinned, very pleased with himself.

"Odegra...hmmm...Odegra." Aziraphale thought on it, pouring himself some wine to help move things along. "It means 'Hail the great beast, devourer of worlds' if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, that's the one. Once it's built, millions of motorists will grumble their way around it." Crowley said with a dramatic pause.

"Like water on a prayer wheel!" Aziraphale said, putting it all together like the demon hoped he would. The angel didn't disappoint.

"Exactly!" Crowley beamed.

"Oh my, that is terribly clever of you, dear." Aziraphale said, giving it another go with the handout before putting it aside, which was fine. It wasn't supposed to make sense anyway.

"Can I get a wahoo?" Crowley finger gunned.

"Wahoo!" Aziraphale said with enough enthusiasm to almost spill his wine.

"Wahoo!" Crowley said, flopping down next to the angel now that was all said and done with. The demon snapped everything away, a great weight lifted off of his shoulders as he drunkenly snuggled up against Aziraphale who topped off his cup. The angel all but pulled Crowley into his lap so he could play with the demon's scaled toes, running his fingers over sleek sharp ankles that were delightful cool to his permanently too warm touch.

"Why are you bringing up a road with me though?" Aziraphale asked, wiggling so that Crowley's silly mustache stop tickling his neck. He didn't much care for the fashion of this decade, though the satiny unbuttoned red shirt Crowley was wearing was quite nice. There were little patches of coppery red scales where hair should be, peeking out from under the demon's shirt, Crowley getting too drunk for skin.

"Need to know if you are going to stop me or not." Crowley pointed out, taking off his glasses to peer over at the angel.

Aziraphale quite liked that. He didn't care for those awful gold rimmed shades either. In his opinion, they looked cheap and gaudy. If the bookshop happened to lose them as soon as Crowley set them down, it won't be the worst thing that happened in the angel's opinion, his domain doing just that.

The demon would find them decades later in a side closet that wasn't always there with all the other stuff Aziraphale hadn't liked.

"Good Lord, why would I ever do that?" Aziraphale did like Crowley with longer hair though, carding his fingers through it.

"You see a wile, ya' thwart?" Crowley managed out, almost losing his entire train of thought. He did miracle away the mustache though so he could hide his face properly in the crook of angel's warm neck.

"I don't see why I should bother. I rarely leave Soho these days, and when I do, I certainly don't drive." Aziraphale snorted. The only time he spent in a car was with Crowley. As far as he was concerned, a road that made one drive slower upon it was a blessing in disguise, at least for him. "Would you like some scotch? I rediscovered a bottle of single malt I had forgotten all about hiding in the stacks earlier today. It's old enough to bury itself."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, angel."


End file.
